


Allodynia

by lilith_babylon



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Body Horror Elements, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:53:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_babylon/pseuds/lilith_babylon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The white-hot fire is everywhere, his neurons screaming for relief. And he can't block the signal, he can't shut the chemokines down, but there is one thing he can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Allodynia

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Kinkmeme: _Simm's Master to Eleven: "I want to hurt you just to hear you screaming my name"_. Lyric from Poison by Alice Cooper

**

The distress call comes from the fourth moon of Cheem. It's an ingenious, desperate cry for help from the depths of the central citadel, buried among esoteric transformations of bio-radiation in the ancient, rooted elders. Whatever trouble the tree people have encountered, its influence must be entrenched and insidious for them to have to resort to such channels in order to avoid detection.

From that warning sign alone, the Doctor should have guessed what the source of the distress would be. He doesn't have time to find the resistance movement. In fact he barely has time to close the TARDIS door behind him before he's surrounded by impressionable sapling guards, all pointing fire-throwers at his hearts. He raises his hands, and the trees march him deep into the citadel, to a grand hall lined with columns, topped by an ornate, domed ceiling. He's still admiring the frescoes when the guards force him to his knees.

"Ah, my dear Doctor," a familiar, impossible voice echoes through the hall. The tree guards part, and the trouble on Cheem becomes all-too-obvious in hindsight. He is more put together than the last time they met; his shock of bleached hair has been muted back to dirty blond, and his ratty clothes have been traded for a dark, trim-cut suit that shimmers when he moves, with just a hint of the intricate patterns that mark the height of arboreal fashion on this world. His eyes shine with unrestrained madness, as they ever have in this body.

"Master," the Doctor breathes.

The Master smiles, his gaze traveling the length of the Doctor's new body from knees to head. "I was wondering how long it would take for you to show up. I love what you've done with the place."

From behind his back, he brandishes a syringe of clear liquid with a wisp-thin needle tip. The Doctor reaches out a hand in astonishment, but before he can say anything, the Master catches him by the fingers, pricks the needle into the heel of his hand down lengthwise toward his wrist, and depresses the plunger. Fire shoots through the Doctor's veins and he looks up, shocked in spite of the rational inevitability of the action, watching the Master's smile dissolve away with the rest of the room into gray shadows, and then blackness.

\----

The first thing he's aware of is persistent pressure on his diaphragm and an ache in his knees. The second is a foreign drug coursing through his system. The Doctor adjusts his metabolism to burn through the rest of the drug as quickly as it can, and blinks awake. At first he sees nothing except the blurred stripe pattern on his shirtsleeve. He lifts his head a few dizzy inches and realizes he is bent half-prostrate over some kind of ledge, with his arms extended out and secured beyond his head. It's less solid than a stair but more substantial than a shelf or table--the trapezoidal edge retreats away mid-thigh and he feels space in front of his knees where they contact the floor. The room is dim and cold. He lets his head fall back down, ear pressed against the hard stone, and feels the bite of restraints at his ankles. Movement is proving difficult.

He senses rather than sees the other presence in the room. "You and your elaborate fetters," he growls, the words slurring from the effect of the drug. It's also harder to draw breath than he would like, with the sharp ledge crowding his lungs.

"Ah ah, I'm being nice," comes the reply from off to his right. A finger trails down the sensitive skin on the side of his chest, bare except for his thin dress shirt, and the Doctor turns his head to the other side to face his nemesis. The Master's smile flashes predatory in the gloom. "I could always flip you over and leave you that way instead."

The Doctor contemplates the effects of being bowstrung over backward across the hard ledge, and he understands more about this prison even before the Master indulges an explanation.

"Anyway I can't take credit for this. The forests of Cheem have their own driftwood skeletons in the proverbial closet, or wouldn't you have guessed? It's not breaking their specialists are concerned with; breaking is natural to them. No, their methods of persuasion are designed to warp and bend a body over decades. Slow," he leans down to eye level with his prisoner. "Persistent," he whispers at the Doctor's ear, taking his hand palm to palm above the shackle holding it against the table, his thumb and forefinger wrapped around the base knuckle of the Doctor's pinky finger.

The Doctor's world narrows in focus to the Master's face and that specific sensation of pressure in his finger. "Don't--" he starts, but the Master just sneers at him.

"And excruciating." With a twist of his thumb he dislocates the digit, then retreats as the Doctor lets out a roar of pain, twisting against his bonds. He tries to free his hand but it just scrapes against the restraint bolted into the stone, the movement sparking further aftershocks of agony through to his brain. Tears leak out of his eyes and the Doctor pants for breath, suppressing the panic of helplessness and trying to force his muscles to relax in the face of his body's acute desire to get away, now.

Through the white haze, he realizes it hurts more than it should. He hisses breaths through his teeth and forces himself to analyze the pain signals swamping his nervous system. As he does so, a hand caresses his hair, trailing intimately down his neck, and he gasps "Master!" before he can stop himself.

"So sweet," comes the silky voice. "I'll leave you to your thoughts."

Then the touch is gone and the room is empty.

\-----

Two hours pass by before he musters the nerve to put his finger back into place, positioning it carefully against the stone and working the bone into its socket with a controlled burst of motion that spikes pain down his arm. The sharp agony dissipates almost immediately, but it's replaced by a slow burn that settles in his hand and starts to throb with any brush of sensation against the skin. The Doctor recognizes the signals. He tries every technique he knows to suppress the pain, but it's an auto-immune response. Nothing works. Instead, he squeezes his eyes shut and works his way through recreational mathematics exercises, trying to concentrate his thoughts on something other than the feel of fire in his fingers, creeping slowly down his wrist.

"You've metabolized the xallenia extract, I take it," the Master says languidly from his right. The Doctor hadn't heard him come in. He lifts his head to see the other man's shadowed form leaning against a corner of the dim room. The Master affects a frown. "But oh, it doesn't seem to be helping, does it?"

"Chemokines," the Doctor says, blinking back tears as he stares at the angry red skin on his hand. The drug is long since gone from his system, but its effects aren't. "It's initiated a feedback loop in the pain receptors--what?" He closes his eyes again and tries to control his panic. "What have you done?"

He hears the Master laugh and take a step forward in the room. A thumb brushes along the back of the Doctor's affected hand and the pain blossoms white against his closed eyelids. He lets out a frustrated scream and writhes in his bonds. The Master releases his hand and seizes him by the hair instead, drawing his head back before he finally relents, running the hand down the length of the Doctor's back to linger just above his buttocks. He sinks down to one knee, pushing his groin against the Doctor's thighs. The Doctor can feel the warm press of his enemy's need and he's helpless to stop anything.

"The trees use xallenia extract to make branches and trunks pliable, but flesh is so fragile compared to bark and wood," the Master says, caressing the Doctor's hip and rubbing the length of his hot hardness against the coarse fabric of the Doctor's trousers. "I wonder how long it will take to spread everywhere. I don't know how long I can wait."

"You can't," the Doctor pants, breathless, trapped between the agony in his hand and the terrifying desire behind the Master's touch. His fingers feel as though they are burning to ash with any movement, and he can't fathom the thought of this pain taking over every inch of his body. He can't imagine any kind of touch in this state that wouldn't undo him completely. Surely his hearts would go into arrest. "You can't, it'll kill me--"

The caress turns to a rock-hard grip on his side. "Oh, Doctor. Don't you think I know the limits of what a body can take? I suppose we'll find out soon enough, won't we?"

The Master rises again, leaning over his captive and placing a chaste kiss along the Doctor's jaw. The Doctor flinches at the breath at his ear, jarring his wrist and causing the bite of cold iron to flare like fire against his skin.

He's never been one to beg.

"Please," he says to his enemy. "Please stop this."

The Master buries his head in the Doctor's hair, teasing his ear with his lips. The Doctor can feel his grin.

"There's still one thing you can do," he whispers, hovering close, his thighs tightening against the Doctor's bound body.

Oh. Oh, no.

"I cant," he gasps, panic rising again and shortening his breath. "I've never--I've never been good at . . ." The words trail off and he swallows thickly. His body aches where it isn't burning.

The pressure relents suddenly, leaving the Doctor exposed again to the cold draft. From the corner of his eye, he sees the Master adjust the sleeves on his jacket with businesslike efficiency, before turning again to his prisoner.

"Well, of course it's up to you," he says matter-of-factly. "I'll be back tomorrow, and we'll continue. One way or the other."

\-------

After six hours, the effect has spread across both his arms and down his chest. He feels hot needles press into his cheek where it contacts stone. The light rustle of his shirtsleeves breathes blowtorch burns down his skin, and the press of the ledge against his ribs is like a furnace. He finds himself initiating respiratory bypass just to keep still.

He knows what the Master wants him to do. It's perverse and dangerous and he doesn't even know if he would succeed if he tried. He rides out the waves of agony instead, trying not to cry out too loudly when his bypass system kicks out and forces air into his lungs. Maybe if he waits long enough, the effect will dissipate, even though all it's done so far is amplify.

It keeps amplifying, faster and faster. After eight hours it spreads to his waist and legs, and there is no way to keep still. Exhausted muscles shiver and shake, igniting fire across his reddening skin, and he thinks that this once, the Master must be wrong. He can't survive this. He screams himself hoarse but he can't stop the pain. The drug is gone so there is nothing to metabolize. The flood gates have been opened on his receptors and he can't shut them down. The immune reaction has overloaded everything, even his trance and shut-down systems. He can't even lose consciousness.

After ten hours, he can't endure any more. "Master!" he screams into the dark, drawing ugly, ragged breaths that blaze fire across his skin. But he can't speak any more than that. _You win_ , he thinks, sinking his senses down, drawing his thoughts and attention as far inwardly as he can. The white-hot fire is everywhere, his neurons screaming for relief. And he can't block the signal, he can't shut the chemokines down, but there is one thing he can do.

He can re-route the signal when it reaches his brain. If he tries hard enough, the Doctor can re-wire the end path. But there's only one system left that can take this level of intensity, and of course the Master knows what it is.

Tears course searing paths down his cheeks as the Doctor focuses all of his remaining internal perceptions on re-appropriating the pleasure centers of his brain.

\-----

The hours pass no faster afterward. By the time the Master enters the cell again, the Doctor is practically sobbing in his bonds, and his whole body is aching and shuddering.

"Come to your senses, have you?" the Master asks, staring into his enemy's eyes. The Doctor wonders what incoherent need he sees reflected back at him, wonders if the look in his own eyes is as hungry as the face he sees before him. He tries to answer but the Master puts a finger to his lips. The simple touch ignites an ache that bolts through him, pooling ecstasy deep beneath the tired, trembling muscles in his groin. The Doctor groans, and the Master smiles.

"Oh, that would be a yes." His hand traces the Doctor's cheek, running across the curve of his ear, and when he cards his fingers through the Doctor's hair, the blunt pressure along the sensitive skin on his scalp causes the Doctor to cry out in a half-moan, half-sigh. His cock throbs against the stone trapping it, the sharp edge fading behind an explosion of pure desire. His own hands strain uselessly at the cuffs. His brain short-circuits to a litany of _please, please, please_ and he doesn't realize he's speaking aloud until the Master cups his hand over his mouth.

"No more talking," he says, and with his free hand he loosens the bow tie at the Doctor's throat. He opens the first two buttons on the shirt underneath with the same one-handed dexterity that wrenched bone from sinew scant hours before. The Doctor breathes sharply, in and out, through his nose, trying to quell the rising tide of pleasure and panic surging through him as the Master presses his body closer against him. The Master releases his mouth for a moment but secures the tie in place instead, silencing him with the strip of cloth worked around his tongue and jaw.

Words have always been his best weapon and now he is completely defenseless, at his enemy's mercy. He doesn't care. All he wants is for the Master to keep touching him.

The Master is strangely gentle undressing him. Trembling hands roam down the Doctor's back, and back up again, fingers mapping his bare skin as his dress shirt is bunched up against the rising caresses. Up and up, the sweat-soaked fabric pools at his cuffed wrists, and the cold room breathes a draft like ice on his exposed back. The Master eases his hands slowly back down and the Doctor's whole body thrums with the contact. He feels the silky sheath of the Master's suit sleeves like liquid trailing down his spine, followed by rough swirls and whorls of fingerprints. Then the touch is pulled away and he hears the Master shrugging out of his jacket. When touch returns, it's nothing but warm Gallifreyan skin pressing against his aching nerves, so alive, the temporal aspect of his caress reminding the Doctor how no other species can complete him, how no-one left in the universe can light up all of his senses at once.

Soft kisses touch the knob of each vertebra. His trousers slide down his hips, fingers exploring the rim of his entrance and the Doctor gasps into the gag, unable to stop the sob that rises up out of him. The ecstasy swells in waves and it's too much for him to take, too much--

"No, no, no," the Master murmurs into his flesh. There is a flash of _contact_ between them, and suddenly the Doctor feels a raging fire underneath the Master's calm control. For the briefest moment he feels the weight of the other man's words for what they are, a desperate supplication. "Stay with me, Doctor," his enemy entreats against his skin, offering just enough of his own control to keep the Doctor from spasming into helpless, shuddering release before the Master wishes it.

Then the Master tightens his grip on the Doctor's bare hips, licking his way down, down, down as Doctor writhes against him. He feels a hot, rock-hard erection through sleek trousers against his inner thigh. Then a soft tongue explores the Doctor's hole and he tenses--bowstrung, powerless like so many of this cell's past prisoners--before his muscles give up their fight to keep the soft flesh of his belly from the bite of sharp stone underneath him. Agony or ecstasy: he's never been so glad to be unable to tell the difference.

He feels a finger work its way in, stretching him slowly and carefully, and he shouts against the gag, his own hardness swelling beyond the point of pain. The Master works his way free of his own trousers, and moves his warm, wet length up against the Doctor's thighs to where his own cock is trapped throbbing against the cold ledge.

"You want to touch yourself," the Master says, and it's not a question but the Doctor groans in answer. The Master hovers over him, close enough that the Doctor can feel him as heat and potential and far enough for his nerves to scream at him for the empty inches between them. A hand snakes up to release his right wrist, pulling it free of the iron manacle and the soft trap of his shirt cuff. "You'd better behave if I let you go," the Master says.

Underneath the perverse second skin of burning pleasure and pain, the Doctor's arm is nearly numb from the enforced hours of stillness. But its release gives him room enough to cant his hips away from the stone at his waist. He gasps and trails his hand down to take his own cock by its swollen head. The Master teases his body away from the stone and the bite of the ledge is softened by a ball of fabric; the Master's suit jacket, silken and cold against the Doctor's stomach.

The Master grips his shoulder tightly, his own need pressing inexorably against the Doctor's entrance. "Don't let go," he growls, and for the barest second the Doctor feels a surge of pure, heart-stopping agony course through both of them. He runs his fingers up along his own length, the sensation echoing shocks and jolts doubly from his cock and from his overly sensitive fingertips. White noise sizzles in his brain as the Master pushes into him, slowly at first, the staggering feeling of fullness sweeping through him, replacing the ache in his groin with the most intimate contact. He rubs at himself, faster and faster, rocking his hips and thrusting into his hand in time with the Master's building thrusts inside him.

The hand at his shoulder moves forward, down his chest, pulling him closer against the desperate body behind him. Sensation surges and they both feel it, the clenching pressure of a slick opening, the strumming of a rock-hard, smooth glans across a swollen, aching prostate, the overwhelming stimulation of every inch of skin on skin building and building to a delirious pace in the ancient cell surrounding them.

Their control slips in tandem, movement growing faster and wilder, muscles tensing as nerves scream at them in agony, the Master clawing his fingers into the Doctor's chest, the Doctor pulsing his free hand at the base of his own cock until touch subsumes everything. There is nothing to see but white streaks flashing behind closed eyes, nothing to hear but the static noise that drowns out all thought, nothing to feel but pure, omnipotent need. The Master buries his face against the Doctor's neck and cries ancient, forgotten names into his skin and they both come as one, spasms racking their bodies together, the orgasm like a deafening thunderclap drawing harsh screams from both their throats at once. The Doctor spurts hot come across cold stone as the Master spills himself inside him.

 _Everything_ short-circuits. The white noise overtakes everything, fizzing through their heads, gripping abused nerves where neither could alone and propagating calm in the wake of opposing standing waves. Then, like the deep roll of storms receding in the night, all sensation rumbles away.

\------

In truth, they lie motionless and insensate for only a few minutes. Then the Doctor reaches up with trembling fingers and undoes the gag around his mouth. He frees his left hand as the Master comes to his senses. He watches as the other man draws himself up, shaking uncontrollably.

"It's gone," the Master says simply. He presses his fingers against his forehead, and in the span of a second, the most violent of the shaking stops. 

The Doctor frees his legs but is in no condition to stand. "The distress signal," he manages. "It wasn't from the trees of Cheem, was it?"

"No." His old enemy looks up and smiles. Madness is already kindling again in his eyes.

The Doctor swallows reflexively. He doesn't want to ask, he really doesn't. "How--how did you know what the drug's effects would be on Time Lords?" he finally stutters. 

"They thought"--the Master barks a short laugh--"they thought the xallenia extract had done its job on me."

"I would have helped," the Doctor says.

"You have helped," the Master replies, gathering his trousers. "You've helped cure us both."

The Doctor's hearts ache in his chest. The two of them--they orbit each other so closely, the pull of their lives drawing them together again and again, and yet there will always be the things that keep them endlessly spinning apart.

"I would have helped willingly," he says. But the Master just smiles, predatory, in the dark.

"They thought I was their pliant, little puppet, but of course, they were wrong. My dear Doctor, how ever shall we make them pay for that mistake?"

**


End file.
